The Gunmen of Venom Hill
by Foxmerc
Summary: The story of Starfox set in the gritty, lawless world of the wild west. When a nameless stranger rides into the hushed, faded town of Corneria City, he shakes up the death grip that Doc Andross and the Blood Wolves have held on it for years. Chapter 3 up!
1. The Pale Horse

With "One Death Away" under my belt, I'm putting more focus on my original writing projects. Yet this story is just itching at me and drawing me back. For new readers, this story began with this one chapter about three years ago and I stopped to pursue other ideas. But a part of me always wanted to come back, so here we are.

Writing Starfox fics has always helped me relax, have fun with writing, and take some pressure away from more serious writing projects. I always wanted to do something Western-ish and I realized that Starfox had many characters, elements, and plot devices that could be brought into a Western setting. So here it is, the story of Starfox told as a Western. I'm gonna have some fun with names or locations and such and try to put it all together as faithfully as possible. Hope you enjoy it and let me know what you think. Crank up the Ennio Morricone music, do your best Clint Eastwood squint, and get ready for the good, bad, and ugly of the Western mythos. Most importantly, enjoy! -Foxmerc

**The Gunmen of Venom Hill**

Foxmerc

CHAPTER 1  
The Pale Horse  
-

He shimmered into existence on the sand-choked horizon, a mirage that warranted not a second glance from the weary eyes in Corneria City. As the sun rose higher, his outline grew sharper, heat waves forming a gray stallion with a hunched rider atop it. His black wide-brimmed hat hid his downcast eyes and he remained as lifeless as the mirage that bore him, only his long coat fluttering in the calm wind. Nearly an hour passed before the heavy shuffle of the stallion's hooves on the desert sand fell on the dry, dusty road leading into Corneria City. The horse moved lazily, not at all urged by the man on its back, who held the reigns in one hand with a loose grip.

He passed the small cemetery by the road and continued under a cracked, sandblasted wooden archway that read in faded red paint, "Welcome to Corneria City, home of tomorrow's pioneers!" The man looked up long enough to read it, giving a glimpse of his vulpine face to the morning sun. He lowered his gaze, his eyes dark against the red fur, and gave but one sardonic smirk to the few people on the town's main street. To him, they appeared as pioneering as the town appeared a "city." Only dust-scorched wind sounded in his ears; the bustle of a thriving town, if ever it did exist, was gone. The street had barely the business of even a mining town and the disheveled men and cautious women moved quickly, quietly, and discreetly about their way. The buildings had not been repainted in years and cosmetic problems, from tilted planks to fallen chimneys, had gone in disrepair. Had the fox not seen the scurrying people, he would have written Corneria City off as abandoned. The town seemed as if it had prepared for a deathly storm…or, perhaps, was under siege from one already upon them.

People shied away from him, even retreated indoors as his horse shuffled down the main road. A church stood in the distance, not a sign of God or man of the cloth around, but he would have to pass nearly a half mile of inns, tanneries, smiths, taverns, liveries, banks, and a doctor or two before arriving there. But he wasn't interested in the church, nor the "finer" places in town. A drink and a place to sleep would bring him closer to heaven than what a priest had ever offered him. An inn to his right caught his eye; not because it appeared to be anything special, but because a glint of metal in the creaky sign sparkled in the sun. The fox saw that it was a bullet, nestled into the wood by careful hands, part of the décor for The Lylat Tavern_. _Rooms upstairs, bar downstairs; the fox saw no reason to trot further.

Unlike most towns he'd been to, it was stillness that finally caught his attention. Most people seemed none to eager to remain outside, but a huddle of five men across the road from the Lylat, loitering by the door of an unmarked two-story building, seemed more at home than scorpions in the sand and not much friendlier. A jackal leaning against the building with his arms folded across his chest looked at him through squinted eyes and spat into the road. An ape with his back to the fox turned, looked over the newcomer for a few moments, and let a menacing smile creep onto his face. He gestured to the others, flicked his hat back on his forehead, and led them in a slow mosey toward the Lylat.

The fox hopped off his horse and tied it to the hitching post by the water trough as footsteps crunched the sandy road behind him. He gave it a pat on the neck, and rummaged through the saddlebags. No need to look at the approaching men; he knew all he needed to know about them. They wore gun belts, and they wore them openly with the humorless grins to go with them. Undoubtedly, the men had noticed that he wore none.

"Hey there, stranger."

The fox didn't need to turn to know it was the ape talking.

"You must be new to this part a' the world. Folks 'round here know about the tariffs. You know what a tariff is, boy?"

The fox still busied himself with his saddlebags.

"Tariffs are kinda' like taxes. You pay taxes so nothing bad happens to you. I'm what you call a tax collector for newcomers to this fine city. People give me money and nothing bad happens to 'em. You see how that works? From the looks of you, you can't afford Doc Andross's tax. That means something bad happens to you. Unless you get the money."

The fox spoke, a silent rasp from quiet days alone in the desert. "I ain't staying long."

The ape stepped forward. With a quick flash of steel, he cut the leather straps under the stallion's belly, sending the saddle to the dust with a heavy thump.

"Looks like you'll be staying a li'l longer now, 'less you want to ride this fleabag into the desert bareback. Come to me when you feel inclined to work off the tax. We have labor suitable for wandering trash." He tipped his hat and stepped back. "You have a nice day now."

The fox looked over his shoulder long enough to watch them enter the building they had been loitering around. With a sigh through his nose, he hefted up his ruined saddle and shoved through the swinging doors into the Lylat.

As the doors flapped shut behind him, clouds of scented smoke assailed his nose and obscured his vision. A few disheveled patrons sat at tables, hunched over, staring at nothing but their drinks. The piano sat silent and dusty in one corner, a faded poker table in another. The only sign of activity came from the bar, where a gray canine in an alcohol-stained apron lazily poured whiskey and wiped the wood. Like the poker table and piano, the bartender stood with the same faded dignity from a time when they were useful. The fox sat at a stool and dropped his saddle onto the bar, provoking a scoff from the barkeep.

"I'll let you keep that here for now, but you'll have to move it if a customer needs the space."

A glance around the dead bar proved the comment as sarcasm.

"My pop once told me that if I have a clean bar, I'm a failure," the barkeep continued.  
He was right. What else do I have to do back here all day except wipe the bar down? It's the cleanest thing in this damn town. That saddle of yours just made me more successful. Drink?"

"What do you got?" The fox lifted his hat, wiped sweat from his brow, and slid it back on.

"Whiskey or…whatever's in those green bottles from when I took over the place a few years back."

"Whiskey then."

The barkeep flipped a shot glass over his palm to the wood with a practiced motion and poured the drink, which the fox gulped down with only a slight wince.

"Good to see a courageous drinker 'round here again. Name's Bill Grey, owner of the Lylat Tavern. You got a name?"

"Yeah."

Bill waited a moment unanswered before raising his brow. "Well, you gonna tell it or should I call you 'that hard-drinking new fox in town?'"

"That's fine."

The canine chuckled. "Too long. I'll shorten it. 'Till you tell me, I'll just put your tab under the name Fox. Pay me before you leave town, hear? If you survive, that is. Saw your little exchange of greetings with Andy Oikonny."

Fox glanced out the grimy window at the building across the street. "What can you tell me 'bout him?"

"Andy?" Bill shrugged. "If he's a tax collector, I'm the pope. Nothing but a thug, part of a band called Blood Wolf headed up by One-Eye O'Donnell. Demon brought to life, if ever there was one. You see him, you better have the cavalry to back you up." Bill breathed on a glass and rubbed it with his shirt cuff. More cleaning than the fox expected most of the glassware received. "But Andy ain't a man to mess with. He may not look like much, but I've seen him shoot good gunmen down. You'd do better just to pay him and be off. No shame in paying your dues and moving on. You think I'm gonna tend this bar in this ghost town my whole life? No, sir. As pop said, some men just gotta start at the bottom and work their way up."

"What's in that building over there?"

Bill's eyes followed the fox's nod. "Nothing worth involving yourself in. That's where ol' Doc Andross' boys hole up and let their legal types count their blood money. Andy just collects it."

"He connected to Doc Andross?"

Bill scowled at the name. "If you follow the trail of dirty money far enough, I reckon he is. Low man on the totem pole. Some distant nephew, so the little birds 'round here chirp."

Fox glanced again at the building. He pulled his saddle toward himself and unfastened the large bag draped across the right side. Bill's muzzle pursed as the stranger slid a leather gun belt onto the bar and pulled two single action army revolvers from their holsters. With a flick of his wrist, the cylinders leaned out and he laid them on the bar. The nickel-plated barrels shone in the dim light and bore the etching "Ridgefield .44" amongst some intricate scrollwork not customary to stock pistols. Bill could only catch a glimpse of some kind of etching on the polished wooden grips before the fox palmed them and loaded his twelve shots. With a spin of each cylinder, he replaced the pistols in their leather holsters and buckled the belt around his waist with the ease of a cotton cord. His long duster, which he had nudged back to put on his belt, swished about his legs and shrouded the pistols at his hips in darkness.

"What're you doin', stranger?"

"Following your pop's words." Fox stood. "Starting at the bottom."

Fox squinted as he stepped into glaring sunlight once more and took a breath or two, feeling the weight of his guns on either hip. He took his time walking across the road, letting his eyes take in everything around him, his spurs clinking in the silence. He was about to step up onto the porch when a side alley caught his attention. He peered around the faded blue building and saw a stable in the back lot. With a flick of his hat to shield the sun from his eyes, he started down the alley and glanced at the back door of the building when he came to it. The silence did not lower his guard. If the sand crunching beneath his boots echoed this loudly in the silent alley, surely someone would eventually notice.

He stepped into the stable and perused the horses, each lazily munching on feed or brushing away flies with their tails. He took his time, as if browsing a selection of fine ales, and finally hauled up a black leather saddle that had been rubbed and polished to a shine that almost immediately faded when exposed to the sandy winds outside. Fox made it four steps before the back door swung open and Andy stomped put, backed by his four goons. The ape hopped from the porch to the deserted lot and glared at the intruder.

"I reckon I didn't make myself clear, boy," he seethed. "You must have something wrong in your head."

Fox eyed each man in turn, noticing their hands twitching about their pistol butts. "You made yourself clear. My saddle was getting old. Figured you were inviting me to take a new one. A bit more riding on that and the straps might'a snapped and I might'a busted my neck. It made me feel…all warm inside that you were so concerned."

Andy shuddered in anger.

"I do have to ask one thing. Seems you nicked Ravenwing – that's my stallion, y'see – seems you nicked him with your knife. Now ole R-wing ain't too cross. If it were up to him we'd forget all about it; he don't like trouble. But me…well, I'm cross. So I'm gonna have to ask you to go apologize to my horse."

Amidst the outburst of laughter from his men, Andy took one more step toward Fox and touched his gun butt. "You ain't right in the head, you know that?"

Fox squinted and stared right into the ape's eyes, a stare that made the boiling sun seem cold as the moon. He spoke in a slow, demanding tone. "You gonna apologize to my horse or ain't you?"

The laughter stopped. Andy swallowed.

Fox saw the breath, the sudden intake through the nose of a man about to act. He dropped the saddle and felt the contoured grips of his pistols in his palms, the warm wood against his fur where it belonged. He barely had time to appreciate the familiar music of steel sweeping against the leather of his holsters before bursts of powder thunder and flashes of metal lightning ripped apart Corneria City's silence. Four bursts, four flashes, four .44 caliber kicks that reverberated in his arms and chest, letting him know he was still alive to feel them.

Andy was the last to fall. He grabbed his bloody chest, his eyes bulging, and gasped for air before toppling onto his face and lying still. Fox cocked his right pistol's hammer and stared at the only living goon, the jackal, who had flattened himself against the building, his pistol still in its holster, his mouth hanging open.

"Reach for it," Fox demanded through clenched teeth.

The jackal just worked his mouth wordlessly.

"Either throw down or crawl your ass back into that shack."

The jackal shuffled to the side and all but dove back into the building, the door slamming shut behind him. Fox eased the hammer down and holstered his pistols. He nudged Andy with his boot then reached into the ape's pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. With a chuckle to himself, he lifted the saddle and headed back to the Lylat.

Upon entering, he was greeted with wide-eyed stares from the patrons and Bill Grey. The black saddle hit the wood beside his old one and he shoved the latter toward Bill. "Toss the old saddle away, if you don't mind. Or keep it for yourself to get repaired." The coins fell from his palm and clattered onto the bar. "Keep the change and let me know when I owe you more."

Bill blinked. "Uh…okay…yeah, sure thing."

Fox pulled his pistols one at a time and opened the cylinders. "Which way to the sheriff, if there is one?"

"Oh, uh, you want J. J. Pepperidge down by the Phoenix Feather Saloon. Folks 'round here just call him Peppy. Don't be put off by his age, he's alright."

"Yeah," Fox grunted. He let his spent shell casings fall to the ground and replaced them. "He's done a hell of a job with this town. Hold on to this here saddle for me."

Leaving the whiskey-hazed patrons and Bill with surprise they hadn't felt in years, Fox swung the bar doors open and disappeared into the shimmering sunlight, leaving nothing but the smell of inflamed gunpowder in his wake.

'

**_-Chapter 2 Coming Soon-_**


	2. The Last Free Ground

[Author's Note: Time to put this story back in the active lane! Chapter 1 has been touched up with a new introduction added. And to preemptively answer a couple questions: just because I'm continuing this story doesn't mean I won't also be looking at sequels to either ODA or Mercenary Wars to do as well. So without further delay (hey, what's thirty seconds after three years), welcome back to Gunmen of Venom Hill! Thanks for reading everyone and enjoy! ~Foxmerc]

'

CHAPTER 2  
The Last Free Ground

'

Fox stepped onto the wooden slats outside the sheriff's office and eyed the plaque by the door. He'd seen enough rough towns to expect fading or chipping where the sheriff's name had to be changed numerous times – lawmen seemed to fade quicker than grass in the desert sun the further west he rode. Most were threatened away, others quit. Those that stood up for the law ended up the same place all courageous men retired: six feet beneath a cross, nothing left of their life's work but a crying widow. Whatever happened to them, there was always some damn fool ready to slap his name on the plaque over the last.

But this plaque showed the same undisturbed fading as the rest of the whitewashed building. The sheriff was either very lucky or not too concerned with upholding the law.

Not bothering to knock, Fox twisted the knob and stepped into the office. Dust swirled in the lamplight and sunlight that managed to make it through the crusted windows. The office consisted of the entire first floor of the building, four jail cells lining the left wall – all empty. A trio of desks formed a U in the middle of the room, only one of them manned. Against the right wall stood an array of tables and mounted boards with bounties and official paperwork posted. A couple gun cabinets occupied the closest corner, their doors ajar showing a sparse assortment of rusty shotguns and rifles that Fox would sooner count on to explode in his hand than fire. Fox would've written the building off as abandoned if not for the creaky old hare who shot him a glare and stood from his desk with a scowl.

"I don't want to hear it," the hare stated in a raspy drawl. "You walk in this here town, don't know nothin' 'bout how things work. Stupid sonuvabitch."

Fox looked him up and down. J.J. Pepperidge, if the plaque was to be trusted. "Peppy" the barkeep called him. Age showed without mercy in his face, more age than he probably lived. Age brought on by a hard life rather than time. He wore faded denim trousers and a vest over a stained white shirt, his tarnished star hanging wilted from the threadbare breast. He looked no more able to enforce law in the town than get himself dressed every morning.

"I hear shooting at Oikonney's place and I see you walk out," the hare continued. "I don't care how, I don't care why. But you better not be comin' in here for help. You dug your grave; might's well have just died in the shooting."

Fox ignored him and stepped over to the table bearing the mess of bounties and papers, his spurs echoing in the still room. He gathered up a stack of posts and sifted through them, tossing each back to the table after he'd had a glance. Some faces on the "wanted" posts seemed familiar; outlaws or gunmen from other counties, most killed or arrested months before. Corneria City didn't seem to be keeping up with news, or at least the sheriff's office wasn't.

"You hearin' me okay, stranger? I oughta shoot you where you stand, save me some trouble when Doc Andross' boys come askin' how I let some sand-skirtin' pissant shoot up his men."

Fox found the post he had been searching for and let the rest fall back to the table. He walked straight to the sheriff's desk, provoking a wince from the hare, and flicked the paper toward him. It flitted to the desktop and landed upright, showing an ugly ape's face and the promise of a two thousand credit reward, dead or alive.

The fox folded his arms. "I'll take it in small bills."

Peppy picked up the post and exchanged bug-eyed glances between Oikonney's inked face and the fox as if trying to figure out the joke. Finally, with a belt of a laugh, he crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. "There's a reason them posters are at the bottom of that heap, stranger. The Blood Wolves _are_ the law 'round here. Doc Andross runs the city and the Blood Wolves work for Doc Andross. That ain't too complicated for you to follow, is it?"

"If they're the law, what does that make you?"

The sheriff scowled and narrowed his eyes into a glare but even he didn't seem to believe his indignation. The fleeting anger melted and he slumped back down into his chair with a light sigh. Even the law wasn't immune to the deep resignation that had defined Corneria City to Fox since he arrived. "A relic. A drunk-wrangler and showpiece. It ain't so bad, y'know. The Wolves keep the peace and don't hassle no one who don't get in their way. Wasn't always like this, but…this tin star don't mean nothin' out here."

Fox stepped to a window and peered out. A small crowd had begun to form at Oikonney's former property. "Doc Andross came here seventeen years ago. Real estate tycoon. Genius. Started buying up property way out on Venom Hill, least a day's hard ride away. How did Corneria City get involved?"

Peppy grunted. "You know a helluva lot for a newcomer." The fox didn't respond so he continued. "He came to the city sometimes for some shopping or the theater. Corneria City was a boomtown back then, rich in silver and frontier dreams. Real energy in the streets, lots of people lookin' to make their fortunes or settle down. Then came the outlaws. Me and my deputies kept 'em at bay for a while but then the Blood Wolves showed up. The originals, I mean; One-Eye O'Donnell's pop led 'em. I tell ya though, One-Eye's every inch the murderous bastard his pop was. And on top of that, the goddamn Cerinjuns started getting' antsy and attacked our border settlers and stagecoach lines."

Fox glanced over his shoulder at mention of the native Cerinian savages, remembering his last bloody run-in with a few of them weeks before. He returned his eyes to the crowd.

"Didn't take long for things to fall apart from there. The Katina outpost was abandoned under the strain of too much Cerinjun and outlaw attack. Macbeth silver mine didn't fare much better. People left, retreated to safer settlements back east. Their families followed. Their friends followed. Everyone but the most die-hard loyal followed. And Doc Andross took over, put his hired Blood Wolf thugs in charge. Not officially, of course…but everyone 'round here knows who has the last word."

"Why Corneria City?" Fox asked. "Why Venom Hill?"

Peppy shrugged. "My gut tells me he's trying to run us all out in the cleanest way possible. If he out and kills us, that'll get the Army's attention. So he's biding his time, having the Wolves keep pressure on until Corneria City's a ghost town. I ain't got no clue why, and it's just a gut feeling, but…I don't investigate things no more. Not since a dear friend of mine did just that and 'mysteriously' ended up dead fifteen years ago."

Fox's eyes narrowed. "James McCloud."

Peppy's brow furrowed and he leaned forward on his palms. "Who the blazin' hell are you?"

The stranger stood in silence for a few long moments before finally turning with a scowl. He took a few hard steps forward and loomed over the desk like a long shadow at dusk. "You sat in this office for fifteen years. You watched the city crumble, watched people be terrorized. Watched your friend be murdered. And you just sat like a coward. That tin star may be worthless out here but it ain't half as worthless as you."

The hare blinked but didn't back down, his resigned face slowly hardening. "Listen to the self-righteous jackass. You think you did somethin' cuz you killed a few thugs? Live in this town for more than a day then tell me you think anything can make a difference."

Fox kept his eyes locked with the sheriff's, studying the man. Somewhere behind the tired eyes lurked a younger, more spirited lawman, but hell if he had a chance of being resurrected. Lashing out at strangers would have to pass for courage.

"How 'bout you direct me to someone with some more information," the fox said in a slow, even voice, "and I'll be on my way."

Peppy finally broke the stare and settled back into his chair. "The Phoenix Feather Saloon's just a few doors down; try there. Lady Phoenix ain't no friend of the Wolves or the Doc. Now get out and don't cause no more trouble…just some friendly advice."

Fox tapped the brim of his hat down to shield against the sunlight that awaited him and wrapped his fingers around the knob. Before opening the door, he reached into his pocket, produced a coin from the few of Andy's that he kept, and flipped it toward the sheriff. The copper coin rapped against the desk and spun to the ground where it lolled and settled flat.

"Get your windows cleaned," he growled. "Take a good look at folks' faces when they trudge on by."

'

* * *

'

The buzz of distant chatter greeted Fox as he stepped back onto the dusty main drag; hushed voices wary of speaking too loud. Some in the crowd around Oikonney's house looked back at the stranger and prodded others to look. Before long, the crunch of his boots on the sand was again the loudest sound in earshot, the people silenced and unsure of how to take the man in the long coat. But soon their eyes gazed past him and what they saw broke their fascination, urged them back on their ways and minding their own business like an invisible master's whip upon their backs.

Three men on horses rode down the main road, the church at the end shimmering in the heat behind them. Fox squinted; they were too far to make out, but what he could see told him plenty. They rode easily, backs straight and heads high. People on the road scurried to the sidewalks and kept their distance. Whoever they were, they owned the air around them, and damn well knew it.

Fox spat in the dust and walked up the middle of the road toward them.

As promised, the Phoenix Feather Saloon stood to his right just a minute's walk from the sheriff's office. Its subdued green paint and gold trim showed a quiet desperation to appear grand, the owner having put more effort into its upkeep than any other building Fox had yet seen. A wide porch held tables and benches and a looming sign above it declared the saloon's name in crimson cursive with a stylistic red feather underlining it. Lamps hung from either end to illuminate it at night and as he neared, the muffled strains of a piano wafted out to the street. A few horses stood tied to the hitching post near the porch stairs…customers. Probably more than the Lylat saw in a month.

As Fox looked the place over, he kept his ears perked at the hooves moseying closer. A couple dozen feet out, the men dismounted and took a few steps toward him.

"I knew Clem was a dirty liar. Ain't no way this dime's worth of dog meat killed Andy. Hey mister…what's your name?"

"Easy, my portly friend. A man is two things: what he is to the eye, and what he is in truth. Perhaps this man's truth is greater than he seems."

"What the hell you talkin' about? Does that mean we string him up or not?"

"It means killing him may not be as easy as your elementary plan suggests."

Fox listened to the two voices banter, one a heavy, guttural trombone weighted with the regional drawl and an animal's straightforward thinking. His more verbose friend spoke with a light, dignified air, like a professor from back east who liked toying with those of lesser intellect and could easily hide his amusement from those he dominated. Fox turned to face them, his right hand lingering beneath his duster near the butt of his revolver.

"Well, look at this here fella," the trombone blared again. He was a pig, shorter than the others and dressed in stained riding gear that stretched to fit his fat. He spit tobacco juice to the dust and continued to chomp loudly, thumbs hooked in his vest and a pistol hanging from his belt. "Looks mighty serious. I don't think Corneria City's ways have been drilled into his head yet."

The owner of the snooty voice stood tall beside the pig, arms folded over the blue pinstriped vest of a luxurious suit, the gold chain of a pocket watch draped from one breast pocket and the ivory handle of a revolver jutting from a leather strapped holster on the other. He wore a gentleman's hat and a condescending grin to go with it on his green-scaled face. The lizard harbored two traits that Fox had rarely seen on the frontier – an educated intelligence and fearlessness in armed confrontation. "He doesn't look like one for rules, dear Pigma," the lizard remarked. "He looks like one who speaks in words of hot lead. Tell me, sir, did you have such an exchange of words with Mister Oikonney?"

As a gust of wind picked up and blew dust about the street, Fox noticed the black kerchiefs around the two men's necks for the first time, fluttering in the wind. Just like Andy's.

"I was just reclaiming what's rightfully mine," Fox uttered. "He tried to stop me."

Pigma spit and grunted. "That's Andy alright. Stupid bastard always pickin' fights without the skill to see 'em through. But that don't change nothin.' You still killed a Blood Wolf, mister, no matter how stupid he was."

Fox kept his fingertips alighted on his pistol butt and waited, his eyes unblinking. The lizard wasn't just folding his arms to relax; his own hand brushed against the ivory handle poking out of his shoulder holster. And though the pig didn't look like the quick sort, another gun set to be drawn wasn't to be taken lightly. Another gust of wind picked up and rustled the fox's coat and the gunmen's scarves, the only movement on the dust road.

"Enough."

Pigma and the lizard relaxed their hands and shifted aside. The third rider who had been cloaked from Fox's view stood by his chestnut horse, patting the animal on the neck. He swiveled his head to look at Fox and had to turn it a little more than any other man thanks to the eye patch over his left eye.

"We can gun him down here, boss," the pig whined. "Andy—"

"Andy got what was coming to him." The wolf turned to face Fox and stepped ahead of his cronies; slow, easy steps, like a man there for a friendly conversation. Fox realized the wolf roused his nerves and kept him on edge more than the other two combined. Stupidity and intellect were dangerous when put to the wrong men, but confidence…confident eyes were often the last thing a man saw when he stared down the barrel of a gun that outdrew him. The wolf has those eyes and the presence to match it.

But if he hoped to find the same defeated spirit as the townspeople in this stranger before him, Fox was eager to disappoint.

The wolf lifted his black hat from his head and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve before returning it. His garb resembled something more respectable than the pig and less pretention than the lizard, just a work shirt and black vest with denim pants. An embossed leather gun belt hung about his waist and the sunlight glinting from the blue steel revolver testified to its upkeep. He kept his right hand dangling by his waist but with no threatening motions around the gun.

"You don't seem too broken up about Andy," Fox said, never letting his eyes stray from the wolf.

"I'm an optimist, stranger," the wolf replied with a cold grin. "I don't see it as a loss. A man comes to town and beats another man at his own game. I see it as…natural selection. An opportunity."

"Opportunity."

"You look like a man without a steady job tying him down. A man in need of some money. Doc Andross is always looking for men who…how did you put it, Leon?"

The lizard blinked. "Speak in words of hot lead, sir?"

"Right." The wolf raised his palms and gestured around him. "This shithole city ain't flowing with money, stranger. Either put your gun to work for Doc Andross or sell yourself out in this whorehouse here. And I don't think you'd look good in a nightie."

Pigma gave a string of choking laughter.

"I ain't here to make money, mister," Fox responded flatly. "And I ain't here to kill for Doc Andross."

"I don't think you heard me right." The single eye narrowed. "You either replace Andy or you join him out in the cemetery. Fair's fair. After all, it's hard for a man to make the claim that he ain't here to kill when he did just that his first hour here."

"I didn't say I wasn't here to kill. Just not for Doc Andross."

The wolf's grin melted away and his lips pursed. "Pity." His brow bunched and shadowed his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. "I…_very much_ despise a man who can't see opportunity."

His gunhand curled.

Fox drew a sharp breath.

The moment Fox knew all too well, when his last breath could be his last and the final thing he would hear in this life was a roar of black powder thunder…and knowing he wasn't finished yet.

But the thunder never came. Instead a voice firm as steel interrupted them; a female voice.

"Now I know I'm not about to see a squabble here on my property."

The wolf hesitated for a few tense moments and a smile gradually crept onto his gray muzzle. His hand relaxed and he stiffened his back, his two sidekicks easing down as well. "What angelic voice is that I hear? Been a long time since I've been welcomed so lovingly into the Feather."

Fox kept his guard up but dared to let his eyes wander to the porch of the Phoenix Feather. A red vixen stood at the top of the stairs; young, probably into her twenties a healthy way, pretty enough to keep Fox's eyes despite the danger in front of him. She wore a full crimson dress with a black-trimmed bodice that left her neck and shoulders bare, save a black choker with a silver pendant. She stepped down the stairs, black high-heeled boots clopping on the wood, her black elbow-length gloved hands set on her waist. The way she moved entranced Fox: fluid, graceful, the kind of sway that left no doubt the body beneath the layers of fabric did the lovely face justice.

"Yeah, about as welcome as the scorpion I ground into the floorboards an hour ago," the vixen replied with a sour smirk at the wolf. "You know I don't allow gunplay on my property, O'Donnell. That includes the ground in front of it."

Fox found himself surprised by her confidence. A spirited person seemed to be a rarity in Corneria City, especially one who didn't want to pull a gun on him.

"Just talking, Miss Phoenix," Leon said with a tip if his hat. "Making sure Corneria City's newest vagrant knows the lay of the land."

"Well, this 'vagrant' is my guest." The vixen walked up to Fox and looked him over, ending with a little sideways grin at him before turning back to face the three gunmen. "If you're not here to drink or get a room, get on your way."

The wolf gave a leering grin at the vixen's cleavage that the low-cut bodice was doing its best to keep contained. "If I get a room, do I get you with it?"

She sighed and cocked her head, looking at him like a big sister would look at an annoying little brother. "No matter how many times you ask, I still ain't for sale. I just manage the girls."

"How can you live here so long and still not realize that I get what I want in the end?"

The vixen took three slow, imposing steps so she was practically nose to nose with him and looked him in the eye. "The day you have me is the day I can look into your face without dry-heaving."

O'Donnell's smile grew wider and he chuckled deep in his throat. But in the blink of an eye, the mouth twisted and his brow furrowed with sudden anger. His hand whipped up and grasped her muzzle, choking off a yelp. His voice rumbled, dark and cold.

"That pretty mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble some day."

Struggling against the hold, Phoenix recoiled back when the wolf released her, deftly keeping her footing on the now-dusty high-heeled boots, her eyes burning a glare into him. But the wolf's amused face returned as quickly as it had gone, joining his men in a bout of laughter at the woman's expense. With a mock-polite farewell tap on the brim of his hat, the wolf mounted his horse and shot another glance at Fox. "Come on, boys," he said, pulling the reins to the side. "Nothing at this rundown shithole we can't get better at the Paw. You two have a nice day now."

Phoenix squinted through the cloud of sand the three horses left in their wake and growled an angry curse. But she took a calming breath and kept her composure, returning her attention to Fox with a wary eye. The muffled piano music beckoning them once again now that the noise of horses and threats had gone, Phoenix gestured to the stairs and took the lead. "Well, don't just stand there. Get inside before you can attract any more trouble."

Fox followed close behind, silently enjoying the view.

'

* * *

'

The Feather greeted Fox like a woman in her death throes still clinging to hope; painted up, active, and still smiling despite the pain and weakness underneath. Red and gold dominated the décor in the theme of the mythical phoenix, with a couple dozen oil lamps keeping the place bright from rafters to scuffed floorboards. A blazing chandelier fought the lamps to dominate the saloon's shadows, creating an effect that Fox rather liked; after weeks of staring at his own gloomy shadow in his travels, he welcomed a little change. Curtains – of red velvet and gold trim, naturally – hung draped at every window, allowing in more light from clean-scrubbed windows.

But even the polished wood banisters and veneers couldn't hide the rough times the saloon obviously faced. Yet something about the place – and Phoenix herself – convinced Fox that she wasn't trying to hide anything or fool people into thinking more of the place with decorations and light. She was just trying to keep it alive.

"Take a seat," Phoenix offered as she whisked herself behind the bar to stand before the shelves of liquor bottles. "Name's Fara, by the way, Fara Phoenix. Manny! Something a little more up-tempo, eh? We got a new customer here."

The piano player near the staircase smiled and started in on a livelier piece, the upbeat notes a backdrop to the tired but heartfelt cheers of the ten or so patrons sitting at the tables. Fox gave them a quick glance: working men, there to forget their sorrows but not drown them like the men at the Lylat.

"You'd think I offered to buy a round," Fox said, sliding onto a stool near the middle of the bar where he could see the front door better out of the corner of his eye. "Loyal customers?"

"Only three watering holes still up and running here in the big CC." Fara retrieved an amber-hued bottle from beneath the bar and set it on the wood along with a shot glass. Her practiced movements told Fox that she'd opted to work the bar herself rather than hire a man. "The Feather here, the Lylat down the road, and the Cat's Paw over 'round the corner. If I close up shop, my customers either wallow in Grey's little dive or go to the Paw to be harassed by the Blood Wolves that hang out there." She popped the cork on the bottle and poured a glassful. "So, yes, they like seeing a new guy willing to spend his money here…even if I did coax him in rather shamelessly by saving him from three nasty guns."

Fox found the friendly grin beneath her green eyes contagious and gave a little one himself. He took off his hat, tossed it on the stool beside him, and downed the drink in one fiery gulp. With a sharp breath to cool his inflamed throat, he said, "You got something against the other two saloons?"

"Not Bill, no." She sighed and leaned over, resting her elbows on the bar. When she moved, Fox noticed a gleaming lever-action rifle mounted as decoration above the bottle shelves...and looked to be just within the woman's high reach. "Poor man. His father ran that bar before him. I've been here for twenty years, since I was seven, and seeing the Lylat slowly crumble broke my heart. Nice fellas, Bill and his pa. Bill used to be a cavalryman, stationed at Katina fortress. Once it fell…well, with the city's decay and his own awful war stories, it's a wonder he only serves drinks rather than pouring them down his own gullet. Offered him a job here, but he won't leave that bar for nothing. Can't fault him for that, I'm the same way."

Fox filled his glass and fiddled with it, turning it around and around and watching the whiskey waver. "And the Paw?"

Fara's expression turned sour but before she could say anything, a shrill voice pierced his ear from the other end of the bar.

"The Paw! You don't want the girls at the Cat's Paw, cowboy."

Fox looked over to see a white-furred female collie finish her evocative descent of the staircase, her skimpy dress and sheer robe leaving no doubt of her profession. She let her fair hand slide off the edge of the banister and alight to her head where her finger played with a red bow bound in her fur. A black and auburn lynx stepped down beside her, equally comfortable showing herself publicly in clothes a decent woman would consider a first layer. Their smiles gleamed with the same come-hither lust that whores put on like a sign in a window, in every town Fox had ever breezed through. They seemed attractive enough to Fox, definitely better than some he'd had the misfortune of seeing while sober.

"The girls at the Paw just do what they need to and raid your pockets," the collie continued as she and the lynx sauntered down the bar toward him. "Us? Well…we're artists. We can tease parts you never knew you had."

"Besides," the lynx added in a deeper, sultrier voice. "Would'ya really want a girl that's been wrapped around a sweaty Blood Wolf?"

Fox nodded in greeting at them. "Can't say I want any girl at the moment. Just talking with your…" He returned his eyes to Fara where her own smoldered, daring him to liken her to these ladies of the night. "Mistress?"

Fara smirked, a hint of the venom she'd given O'Donnell creeping into it. "Good choice of words. She's Miyu, the collie's Fay…the two and _only_ two comfort women here at the Feather. Girls this is…" She raised her brow at him.

"Just call me Fox."

She blinked with a shrug. "Okay then, Fox the fox."

"Come on, now," Fay pouted, sidling up next to him while Miyu stepped around to his other side. "What talk is more important than a little relaxation."

Fox felt a hand snake under his coat and caress his thigh, passing over his left-hand Ridgefield holster.

"Oh, my," Miyu purred into his other ear. "Is that all the heat you're packing?"

Fara snickered as she took to tidying up the shelves beneath the bar. "I'd do what they say if I were you, Fox the fox. They'll twist an innuendo out of anything and you're gonna be stuck there having to hear 'em."

Fox nursed the whiskey and glanced at the girls each in turn. "Just here to talk."

"No one never had no fun just talking." Miyu's hand continued to creep about his gun belt, sneaking toward his back. "My, my, what have we—?"

Her cooing ended with a sharp yelp that snapped every eye in the bar to her direction and silenced the piano. Fox's hand had grasped the girl's wrist quick as a rattlesnake's fangs. He pulled her hand out from under his duster where her fingers were clutched around the dusky wood handle of a silver revolver, frozen probably more out of sudden fear than anything. As a few still moments passed, Miyu's face a mask of slack-jawed shock, Fox realized his he was trembling and his teeth hurt, clenched in what must have seemed like a demon's visage to the woman. His knuckles began to ache and he loosened his grip, tugging the pistol from her fingers. It all had happened so quickly, before he even knew what he had done.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Fox muttered, feeling his quickened heart rate begin to relax.

Miyu snapped her muzzle shut and glared at him while she rubbed her assaulted forearm. Fay comforted her and took her away, spitting a blunt, "Bastard!" before the two retreated back up the staircase. After another bout of silence, punctuated by a cough or scrape of a chair leg, the piano player cautiously started up again and the drone of hushed conversation filled the tavern.

"That was quite a face, stranger," Fara said, her own eyes narrowed with disapproval. "You can try frightening anyone you want, but don't manhandle my girls again, y'hear?"

Fox placed the pistol on the bar and watched the trick-shadows of the lamps and chandelier catch its meticulously polished steel. Another suckle of his whiskey helped calm him. "I apologized already. Maybe your girls should keep their fondling away from a man's weapons."

"You didn't seem to mind too much when she touched the one at your hip there. Why so protective of this one?"

The stranger drew another sip.

With a morose glance at the silver pistol, he palmed it from the bar and shoved it back into his gun belt's rear-draw holster where it slept again under the cover and shadow of his duster. "Pepperidge said you have information about Doc Andross and the Blood Wolves. Is that true or not?"

"Down to business, huh?" Fara folded her arms and leaned her thigh against the bar. "Why should I tell you anything?"

Fox drained the last of his whiskey and slid the glass across the wood toward her, following it with the tinkle of a few coins from his pocket. "Because I'll need drinks and information for as long as I'm here and if I can find both in one place, I just might become one of those loyal customers."

The vixen perused him with sharp eyes, a frown of study etched on her muzzle. Finally, she took the coins from the bar and poured once more with a hint of a grin sneaking through. "The Feather needs all the help she can get. What do you want to know?"

"Let's start with the welcome committee out on the street."

Fara scowled. "They lead the Blood Wolves, bunch of thugs with the Doc pulling their strings. The fat one's Pigma Dengar. Used to be Peppy's deputy. Peppy suspected him of corruption but couldn't prove anything. After the murder of…a good man, Pigma abandoned his position and joined the Wolves."

"What good man?"

The vixen hesitated. "James McCloud. What difference does it make, you don't know him."

Fox's eyes darkened at the new information. He gulped from his refilled glass and noticed the sorrow in her eyes when she spoke of James.

"Anyway," she continued, blinking the sorrow away, "The fop is Leon Powalski, a former surgeon who never had a license to practice and scoffed at the concept of anesthetic. That should tell you all you need to know about him. Don't let the get-up fool you, he's deadly fast with that pistol on his vest. Then there's One-Eye O'Donnell. Mean son of a bitch, just likes to kill and trot around like he's king of the place. I guess to most people he might as well be."

"But not you."

Fara's jaw set. "I was all alone as a child here and I knew I didn't want to be left in the dirt my whole life. This isn't just a saloon, stranger, this is my way of being part of Corneria City. But then I watched everyone around me suffer, be driven off, be gunned down, give up…and I waited for a tragedy to come for me. I scraped by and kept an eye out the window for Andross' thugs. Corneria City may not look like much to you, but it's my home and I ain't never being scared away. This here place is probably the last free ground in the city."

Fox nodded. "If they don't have a problem killing, why do they tolerate you and the Feather?"

"Same reason they tolerate Peppy and Bill: keeps the town functioning, at least to some degree. They know we can't pose a threat so they let us scrape on by and harass us now and then. Besides, even in a town like Corneria City, the Paw ain't enough to fill everyone's drinking needs come evening." Fara sighed and gazed distantly down at the bar. "But I'm no fool; I know it can't last like this forever. One day the money will run out or Andross will flick his finger and the Wolves will burn it down. I can tell you one thing, though." She looked Fox in the eye. "I wasn't raised to go down without a fight. You see that rifle behind me? If the Wolves want to send their men to run me out, they'll have to bury a few of their own when they're done."

The stranger shot another look at the impressive rifle above the liquor bottles. "I hear Doc Andross is buying up barren land on Venom Hill. What's he doing there? What does he get from running people out of Corneria City?

"Couldn't tell you," she said with a shrug. "The last man who might have known died fifteen years ago: James McCloud. He worked for Toad Railway and Engineering as security-for-hire on trains. Good friend of Peppy. Beltino Toad ran the company but he died a while ago and the company pulled out once Corneria City started drowning. His son's still around though, runs a place up by Aquas Lake. A workshop or warehouse or machinery or some such. I see him every couple weeks, comes down for supplies. Nice guy. No ally of Andross. He could tell you more about James' professional life than I could."

"Reckon I should pay him a visit then." Fox stood, letting the initial daze of his whiskey-soothed nerves wash over him and pass. "Should I assume you have a vacant room for rent?"

Fara shot a cunning smile. "Of course. In fact, if you're willing to go apologize again to Miyu in a language she appreciates better, I may just make up a map and help you on your way to Aquas Lake tomorrow."

The stranger placed his hat back on his head and returned the grin from the shadow under the brim as he turned and headed for the stairs. "Ma'am, I'm starting to see why the Feather's endured so long."

'

**_-Chapter 3 Coming Soon-_**


	3. The BlueFurs

[Author's Note: It's been some time and a lot has been going on, but I hope to keep a steady pace now. Most of my time will be spent on some original fiction writing I'm preparing for a convention this June, but I'll still be around. Good to be back and I hope most of you all are still here. Thanks for reading everyone and enjoy! ~Foxmerc]

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CHAPTER 3  
The Blue-Furs

.

_Thunder rolled across the plains and rumbled in the boy's tight chest._

_ The gun felt too large for his hands, too heavy for his arms._

_ "Don't…"_

_ "Don't!"_

_.  
_

Fox's eyelids flew open and he sucked a quick, alert breath through his nose. The dusty rafters above slowly came into focus, painted in the dim gold of dawn's light seeping through the sandy windows. From the main drag outside wafted the early morning sounds of lazy wagon wheels and plodding hooves, interspersed with some greeting or another between the merchants setting up shop and people walking by. Fox had grown used to such sounds stirring him from sleep, but the noise was hardly the excitable din that he imagined Corneria City once bore, back when every other building wasn't a dirty shell.

But who needed noise when he had the dreams to stir him?

His heart calming down inside his sweat-soaked chest, Fox swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, mindful not to wake the naked lynx lying beside him. The modest inn room sat in silence. Folding his hands under his chin, he gazed out at the desert horizon and lost himself in it.

The dream never changed. It had haunted him for years until he grew expectant of it, resisting it like a poison. Then it ached, stuck with him well past the waking hours, still visible when he closed his eyes. Now it was just a part of his night, as natural as the sex that lulled him to sleep hours before. But despite Miyu's best efforts, the dream would stay with him far longer. He didn't mind. The dream kept him focused, made sure he wouldn't forget his path, like a rancid medicine he hated but knew was for his own good. He had changed from that scared child shivering at ghosts in the night.

But the dream never changed.

"Hey, you."

Soft fingers on his back accompanied the sleep-hazed voice behind him.

"That was a hell of an apology."

Fox swallowed and pushed the dream to the back of his mind. He stood and retrieved his pants from the back of a chair in the corner. "You don't got to stroke my ego to make a second sale. One-night only thing, just to help out the Feather here."

"Gee, ain't you the sentimental type." With a little scoff, Miyu sat up and let the sheet slip over her chest to her lap with unashamed nonchalance. Fox supposed that feelings of modesty didn't last long in her line of work. "Why do you care about the Feather anyway?"

With a shrug, Fox buckled his belt and reached for his shirt. "Miss Phoenix seems like a spirited woman. Resilient. Decent. Hard to find out in these parts."

"Yeah, she's alright. Helped out me and Fay. We used to work at another saloon before it closed and we refused to work at the Cat's Paw. So here we are. She pays us good and she doesn't have to."

With a grunt, Fox started on his shirt buttons, eyes perusing the street below. "I'm growing mighty curious about this Cat's Paw place, what with all the insults being flung at it around here.

"Well, insults are all I got for it." The sheets rustled as Miyu slunk down onto her side and propped her head up, her voice taking on a bitter flavor. "What would you call a Blood Wolf hang-out run by a cold-hearted bitch who'd rather make a buck than give a damn about the rest of the city? Huh? What would you call it?"

With a slow spin of the cylinders to check his rounds, Fox shoved his pistols into his holsters and made sure his rear-draw gun was still secured. "A target range."

The young lynx giggled. "No objections here. Better watch that talk out there though; Miss Phoenix won't always be there to pull that cute ass out of the fire."

The memory of the willful, kind face coming to his aid the day before played through his head, but it brought with it a frown, a knot of suspicion from a wandering life where no good turn was free. "Why'd she help me? Besides a couple whiskeys and a night's expense, what'd she have to gain from sticking her neck out?"

"Seems Miss Phoenix's neck is never anywhere but stuck out waitin' to get lopped in two." Miyu watched the man take his long coat, slip his arms in the sleeves, and tug it up over his shoulders, dust and sand drifting from the creases. No amount of shaking or washing would ever get the lingering desert out of it. "Just the way she was raised, I reckon."

"Thought she said she was alone as a kid."

"Well, she was an orphan. She don't talk about it much, but far as I know, her parents were killed and she scraped on by in the alleys. This was back when there were crowds in the streets and rich types tossing food away and coins to the urchins. Then she met James McCloud. You'd have to ask her for the details, but he must'a been some guy to raise her into who she is."

From a nearby chair seat, Fox took his hat by the crown and held it before him, distractedly turning it by the brim. "Sounds like he was a great guy." He paused. "Wish I could've known him."

"Talk to Miss Phoenix enough and you'll think you knew him. She's about all that's left of him. God damned Andross and his thugs killed his whole family along with him at their ranch back east a ways. Wife, kid too."

After a few seconds, Miyu realized all was quiet and she raised her eyes to find the fox still staring down at his hat. He soon glanced over at her and she realized that was the first time he'd ever looked her in the eye. Even that momentary glimpse sent a little shiver down her spine, seeing eyes as cold and sharp as new-forged spurs.

"Whadd'y'all do for coffee around here?" Fox uttered, placing the hat between his ears and returning most of his face to shadow.

"Oh, uh…we got a little kitchen downstairs. Miss Phoenix should have some up by now."

He pulled the door open with a sad creak and, with a fingertip to the brim of his hat, gave a farewell of, "You take care now, ma'am," as he strode into the hallway.

.

* * *

.

The saloon's downstairs lay empty and quiet, the unmistakable aroma of a lived-in watering hole invading Fox's nostrils. Spilled booze, cigar smoke, street dust…all the signatures. But the Feather covered them up nicely with the ghosts of the chandelier and numerous lanterns, the burned oil offering a strange sense of dignity to an unavoidably foul-smelling business. But in the dawn hours, the only light came courtesy of the windows and swinging doors. As he descended the stairs, boots loud as hooves in the silence, the more pleasant fragrance of fresh coffee wafted from a door beside the bar. After a couple weeks of waking up to whatever dried grounds he could scrounge from his saddlebags, the strong smell kissed him like an angel.

Fox couldn't help but notice as he passed by the bar that the impressive rifle mounted above the shelves had gone missing. Rather than a glint or shine drawing his eye, it was the lack of it that drew his attention, so taken was he with it upon first putting his eye on it. A frown formed on his muzzle as he began piecing together the short mystery of its disappearance. The scratching, shuffling, and clanking of a wagon being suited up out on the road certainly helped. With a light sigh through his nose, Fox followed the aromatic call to the kitchen to pour a mug of black coffee before heading outside.

With the sun barely peeking over the tops of the main street's roofs, it already promised to be another hot day. Fox let the doors flap shut behind him and stood taking small sips every few seconds, perusing the wagon before him, set up right where he and O'Donnell nearly came to blows of lead the day before. It stood tall and solid, a stagecoach with a solid wooden frame reinforced with iron where a more pretentious owner would've put scrollwork and fancy adornments. The windows had been boarded up and the entire side painted in the same style as the Phoenix Feather's tavern sign, the paint equally faded and chipped.

"That you, Fox the fox?" Fara sauntered out from around the other side of the wagon, by the two chestnut horses harnessed and reigned in to the front shafts, giving each a pat on the neck in passing. She wore a simpler dress than the one Fox had seen on her before, brown and straight, less revealing and meant more for practicality than decoration. She tread the rough sandy dirt in flat leather boots. "How'd Miyu treat you last night?"

Fox took a slurp of coffee as he let his eyes wander the coach. "Better than the desert's been treating me, ma'am."

The vixen chuckled under her breath as she went about her work, checking the horses' straps and kneeling to get a look at the axles and undercarriage. Something about a woman who could go from alluring mistress to unabashed hands-on worker as easily as changing her clothes stirred a funny feeling in Fox's gut.

"I reckon that's as good a compliment as any."

Another scalding sip. "You mind telling me what you're doing?"

From her hands and knees halfway beneath the coach, Fara glanced back under her arm. "You said you wanted to see Toad. I said I'd show you. Did Miyu hump out your short term memory or somethin'?"

"My mind's working fine, ma'am, fine enough to know I ain't escorting a woman beyond the city lines into the wild. I heard 'bout the uppity Cerinians around here."

Fara scoffed and returned to her work.

"See," Fox continued, annoyed, "when you said you'd show me, I figured a little drawn map or written directions or a finger pointin' the general goddamn area or some such. I suppose you plan to ride up on the buckboard also, reigns in one hand and that pretty rifle of yours in the other, whoopin' and hollerin' all the way."

The tavern mistress-turned- coach hand slid back out from under the wagon and hopped to her feet, brushing gritty sand from her dress, eyes meeting her guest's with her jaw set in that way Fox already learned to recognize as stubbornness. "I don't know if you caught on yet, honey, but Corneria City ain't a place for proper ladies and their doting gentlemen. I'm plenty familiar with the paths all around these parts and I can hold my own just fine with that 'pretty' rifle of mine. You think I keep it in the bar to impress wandering gunmen like you?"

Fox finished off his coffee and placed the mug upside down on the porch railing with a hollow thump.

"Besides," she continued as she braced a foot against the front wheel and hoisted herself up into the driver's position on the buckboard. Sure enough, one hand grasped the reigns while the other produced the rifle from where it had been lying on the seat, its gleaming metal even more resplendent in the sunlight. "The tribe 'round the mountain path's always been pretty peaceful with us. Even if they weren't…ain't nothing out there more dangerous than life here in the city on any given day. Now, you coming, or did I dirty up this here frock for nothing?"

Fox frowned but presently pulled himself up to ride shotgun alongside her. He couldn't forget why he'd come to Corneria City in the first place. If this Toad had any information for him then he refused to let decency get in his way. What the hell, he figured. Every law of God and man had been broken by his hand on his long, gunsmoke-filled trail to Corneria City. No sense letting chivalry get away unscathed.

.

The coach rattled on through Corneria City and past the church, Fara pointing out odds and ends like an old livery or boarded up general store, and finally shooting a glare and hooked thumb down a side street she proclaimed harbored the Cat's Paw. Fox couldn't see much except a row of nine or ten horses tied to the hitching posts; enough to know the Paw indeed claimed most of the city's business. Fara quieted up after that and stayed leaned over with her elbows on her knees, reigns firm in her hands. Though Fox felt he should've been the one leading the horses, he stayed quiet and let the tavern mistress tend to her own coach, leaning back and tapping the brim of his hat down to cover his eyes and let him catch up on some rest.

After a good few hours of silence with only the rhythmic clopping of hooves and strained shuffling of the vehicle, he felt the road change beneath the wheels, felt the air change from hot and dry to warm and airy, heard the ruffle of wind through leaves. He righted his hat back between his ears and looked around at the mountain foliage. Oaks and pines stood high to give them shade, shrubs and grass nipping at their heels. The barely-trod path before them was of dirt rather than sand. Even a bird or two dared to sing a tune, accompanied by the warbling of a brook or stream somewhere in the distance.

"Gettin' higher up in the Fortuna Mountains," Fara said, noticing her passenger's rousing. "Still a ways from the mountains proper but the foothills and valleys around here are always good for a ride."

Fox took his time giving the scenery a once-over. The new surroundings may have been a pretty sight and a relief on the skin, but more greenery meant more cover for dangers. "How long we been riding?"

"Five, six hours maybe. Toad's depot is only another hour or so away."

Fox's eyes lingered on a thick oak trunk beside the path coming up on their right. The thick wood had been whittled down, sculpted into the rough visage of an angry feral wolf, its ornate designs and sharp eyes a testament to its craftsman. Etchings adorned where the bark had been stripped around the carved wolf. Though he couldn't understand all that was there, Fox knew it was a Cerinian territorial marker, a tribe he'd not ever encountered. With a frown, he hoped it stayed that way.

"Not used to moving through Cerinian lands riding a giant, rattling, slow-as-hell target," Fox uttered.

"I figured since we're heading up there I can get a head start on some shopping Toad does every month or so." Fara rapped her fist behind her on the roof of the coach. "Santos at the city import gives me a few credits when he doesn't want to make deliveries. He gets jumpy up in these parts."

"Can't rightly blame him. Territory marks ain't exactly a welcome sign."

Fara rolled her eyes. "I should'a just let you sleep through it like you did the last two."

Fox blinked and darted his eyes around for another look all around them "How goddamn deep down the Cerinians throats are you taking us?"

"I already told you, the Krazoa tribe don't hassle us. Hell, they used to trade with us until Doc Andross got 'em all riled. It's mostly the other tribes around here that put us in their sights. Or whatever the hell it is they aim bows and arrows with."

When he was finished giving the woods a third scrutiny, Fox settled down a little and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest and fingers touching the butts of his pistols. He glanced out the corner of his eye at Fara and gave a short, deep chuckle. "You sure got a tight grip on that there rifle for someone without a care for savages."

Fara looked down at the gleaming rifle lying across her lap, her fingers curled around the stock and triggerguard like a nest of anxious rattlesnakes. She returned the chuckle and relaxed her hand. "I didn't say I trusted them, I just said they ain't the aggressive type."

After a moment, Fox muttered, "So, you gonna tell me about it?"

"Tell you 'bout what?"

"That rifle. I seen enough to know when something's got a story behind it."

Fara lowered her eyes to the gun and slowly ran her finger down its barrel and back to the lever, her eyes following but not focused. She stayed quiet for a minute and when she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its spark. "I got it from that James McCloud fella I mentioned yesterday. If you don't know him, it's sort of pointless to tell you about it."

Fox's gaze went to the rifle and he gave it a good long look from stock to muzzle as if looking at it for the first time. "That belonged to James McCloud?"

"That it did."

He reluctantly tore his eyes away from the fine weapon and busied back to keeping watch over the green mountainside. "Go ahead and tell me anyway. As it is, word from Miyu is you're the one to see if a guy wants to know about this man McCloud."

"I guess she's heard one story too many," Fara grinned. "Well…there's a lot to tell and yet there ain't much, you know? He was a good man, good heart, and everything he did showed it. That's a lot more than just saying he was a gunman for hire for Beltino Toad. He had a ranch in the eastern wilds with his family, but he spent half of every year in Corneria City tending to Toad's rail line. I guess you could say I was his family when he wasn't home; he was my family too after my parents got gunned down in a robbery gone bad."

Fox didn't pry into the specifics. Didn't need to. He'd seen it too many times in the rough western territory towns; children orphaned from violence with nowhere to go. Most times they ended up turning into the same thieves and criminals that hurt them in the first place.

"When I was eight," she continued, shifting the reins to the other hand and flexing her weary fingers. "I followed this tall fox all around town 'til he went into a bar. He didn't look like an ol' moneybags but he was carrying something that looked like it could feed me for a month if sold to the right fella." She patted the rifle on her lap. "So he sat for a drink and propped this here gun against the bar and I snatched it and ran out with it. He chased me for what seemed like forever until I got trapped in an alley. I pointed the rifle at him, all pitiful-like from the hip. Probably couldn't have hit him if I unloaded every shot. He didn't even make the slightest move for his pistol, like there was no way he was gonna shoot a kid, just strode right up to me. I was so damn scared I dropped the rifle and cowered away. No one ever chased me down like that before, and I tell you, James McCloud was a damn intimidating sight."

"I don't doubt it," Fox replied, keeping his eyes on the move and his ears perked. The birds kept singing and the unseen stream kept churning.

"He yanked me by the ear and dragged me on over to Sheriff Pepperidge. But he knew jail was no place for me and an orphanage wouldn't be no better, so the sheriff let him put me to work. Honest work, you know? Being his little assistant at the rail line. He took me on his patrol rounds, taught me how to ride, and when he went home to the ranch, he made sure Toad kept me busy around the depots. I had a roof over my head and food in my stomach and even made some honest money. Truth be told, though, I was a defiant little hellion and I always thought James hated me and just wanted to see me suffer for what I done to him. Took me a few years of this to finally figure it all out."

"Figure what out?"

A little grin crept onto Fara's muzzle as some old, dusty memory surfaced. "He told me he had a son 'bout my age back home, said I reminded him of the boy. Gutsy, smart, all these things I never thought I was. After four years of being his little sidekick, he taught me how to shoot. First with a pistol then with this here rifle." She belted out a laugh and shook her head. "My first couple shots landed me right on my ass and scared the bejesus outta me. But James stuck with me and I got to be a damn good shot, and he bought me my own little thirty-two to carry on patrol. I eventually asked him why he trusted me with a gun. He said it all went back to that alley when we first met. He didn't see in me a coward who couldn't shoot him. He saw a girl who chose not to shoot."

Fox nodded. "Too many cowards, thugs, and scumbags out there who think a gun makes them right."

"That's pretty close to what James told me, actually," Fara replied with a raised brow. "As a kid lingering with thieves I saw my share of guns. James was the first man I ever saw that carried a gun, wasn't afraid to use it when he had to, but was never eager to. A man with that kind of heart is scarce out here. He was also the first man who thought I was a good person."

The vixen paused and frowned, eyes cast down upon the back of the horses before her. "When he left for home just after my fourteenth birthday, I realized I loved him. Like a father. He gave me a kiss on top of my head before he left and told me to be a good girl until he got back, left me his rifle and said to practice hard. He was real eager to see his son and wife; part of me was kind of jealous." She hesitated. "I never saw him again. The old Blood Wolves followed him and murdered him and his family. Why? Well…that died with Beltino."

The two remained quiet for a good five minutes, the lush sounds of the mountainside seeming to grow louder in the absence of voices. Fox had let his vigilance slip halfway through the story, muddled by his own thoughts on what the woman had been saying, and he returned his attention to the woods. "What'd you do after that? Besides open the Feather, I mean."

Fara blinked, taken off guard by question so long after finishing her story. But she forced another grin onto her muzzle. "Just what James told me: being a good girl," she tapped the butt of the rifle, "and practicing hard."

Another stretch of silence, this time with the tavern mistress breaking the quiet.

"What about you, Fox the fox? You got a story behind that pistol you carry in the rear-draw holster? You even got a real name?"

When no answer came, she looked over to see the fox's brow ridged, his jaw set, ears perked. He slowly panned the woods around them, but the only unnatural sound that came was the double click of two hammers being cocked back under Fox's coat. Fara instinctively hefted the rifle up and slipped her finger onto the trigger, the sudden tense air growing heavier.

"What is it?" she whispered, her own eyes darting around. "I don't see any—"

Neither of them saw the arrow until it sunk into the backrest between their heads with a heavy thunk. Fox grabbed Fara's arm and shoved himself off the right side of the coach, dragging her along with him, just as another arrow flew by, followed by the unmistakable cracks of rifle fire from the brush. Bullets splintered the buckboard, raining shards down on them as they scrambled for cover against the side of the coach.

"God dammit!" Fara growled, covering her head with her arm as more rumbles of gunpowder thunder resounded from the hillside on the other side of the road. "What in the—!"

Her curses were drowned out by the sudden, chilling rise of savage warcries from the crest of the hill. Fox peeked around the coach at the other side of the road and perceived over a dozen silhouettes crest the ridge only a few hundred feet away. A traveler's nightmare was about to crash over the two foxes; blue-furred Cerinians, spears and tomahawks held high, bodies adorned with fearsome warpaint, eyes like embers from Hell yearning for blood. Their high-pitched warcries ran shivers down Fox's spine and he could see Fara's expression become one of cold fear.

With a shuffle of leather, Fox pulled his two pistols from his holsters and his eyes narrowed.

He answered their thunder in kind, whipping around the coach to fire at the warriors charging them. Magnum rounds tore through Cerinian flesh, dropping three men halfway between the coach and the hill. A retaliation of arrows and bullets forced him back into cover, more chunks of the wagon being taken apart. Waiting for another opportunity, Fox looked over at Fara and found her clutching the rifle against her chest, her chest rising and falling with heavy, fearful breaths.

"Hey!" Fox took her arms to get her attention and their eyes met. "You gonna show me what all that hard practicing got you or ain't ya?"

She blinked a few times and some of the fear left her eyes. She nodded and cocked the lever with a satisfying metallic charge.

"Make your shots count. Find their bowmen and riflemen and keep on them. They should be at the top of the ridge."

Fara nodded, fire slowly returning to her eyes, and she slid along the coach toward the buckboard. Carefully, she poked the barrel around and rested it on the seat at eye level, scanning the ridge, not letting the bullets and arrows that whistled and pounded around her deter her.

Reasonably sure she could hold that side of the road, Fox returned to his position and fired off two more shots at some encroaching blue-furs, thankful the horses at least decided to stay put. He reckoned they'd become used to gunfire in the city and if this tribe was like any other, they'd steer clear of injuring the horses so they could take them for themselves after the owners were dead. Between his own shots, Fox heard the sharp reports from the rifle beside him. Seemed Miss Phoenix found her trigger finger after all. Return fire seemed to die down a little more with each crack of the rifle.

The next time Fox whipped around to fire, he found the barrel of his revolver nose to nose with a Cerinian warrior right on the other side of the road. He had just enough time to glimpse the red warpaint smeared across his bare chest and the sharp axe in his large fist before firing a round that dropped him in a spray of red. A couple more shots held back the tide before Fox sought cover from return fire once more. From memory, he counted three shots left between his two guns. If they'd already reached that close, they'd overwhelm them if he stopped to reload.

"Fox," Fara gasped, seeking refuge herself from the sharpshooters. Her chest still heaved from the battle-fueled excitement. "You gotta save a bullet for me, you hear? You know what they do to women. You promise me it won't come to that."

"Shut up and focus!" Fox growled. "Listen to me. I'm gonna cut the horses free. You got enough rounds left to lay down some quick-trigger fire on them shooters?"

Fara nodded rapidly.

"Good. We got about fifteen seconds till they jump 'round this coach and gut us open. So quit worrying and shaking and just fight. Go, now!"

Fox didn't like leaving his life in the sweaty hands of a woman with rifle, but to her credit she stepped right around and fired round after round without missing a beat. He crouched under her gun and skulked to the horse harnesses, pulling his knife from his boot. Ears ringing with each shot above him, he sliced the leather straps away from the shafts and pulled the reigns free. The horses felt their freedom and reared up, threatening to take off, but Fox held firm to the reigns. He tugged Fara's arm and shoved her toward the nearest horse.

"Get on, dig in, and ride!"

Without hesitation or a word of questioning or objection, she hopped to. Least she catches on quick, Fox thought. As Fara scrambled onto the horse, Fox shoved his knife into his belt and palmed his pistols, covering her with three well-placed shots that kept the shooters he could see behind cover, maybe even gave winged one. Only a shot or two made it in her direction, kicking up dirt in the road before she disappeared down the trail and around a bend in the path, horse sprinting like a demon out of hellfire. Before the shooters could take good aim again, he holstered his pistols and went for the second horse.

But a cry from behind stopped him in his tracks, an unholy screech like a bird of prey about to dig its talons into unsuspecting flesh.

Fox dropped his head just as an axe blade sliced the air above him and sunk into the side of the coach. He spun around and came up ready to fight, knife drawn once more, slicing at the gutsy Cerinian. The fiery blue-furred savage, separated from his embedded axe, drew his own blade and fought back such fury that Fox knew he'd lose if the melee were to draw out. The warrior's arcs and lunges already cut so close to the flesh that he could hear the air whistle loud enough to even blot out all else for a split second.

Fox capitalized on the one successful blow he managed to land, a hard back-handed punch to the face after ducking a swipe that would've sent his head rolling into the underbrush. As the Cerinian stumbled back, Fox's hand went to this rear-draw holster and the hidden pistol saw the light of day, iron sights set right between the blur-fur's eyes. The warrior didn't back down, didn't even get a glint of shock or fear in his eyes, but he stood put with a scowl on his muzzle; proud, accepting of his fate, daring the red fox to end the fight in such a dishonorable way.

But it wasn't the threat of dishonor that stayed Fox's finger. He never intended to fire, just wanted to get the enemy to stay back like he was doing.

No; the bullet in that gun wasn't meant for no man but one.

Fox broke for the horse and hopped up over its rear onto the back, grabbing up the reins and kicking it into full gallop. A couple off-kilter shots nipped at his back but he rode away with his life intact. After a few seconds, he dared a look back at the bloody hillside and matched eyes with one figure in the middle of the road beside the shot-up coach. A woman; obvious by her shape even that distance, a spear upright in her hand. Though her tribal trappings would've caused the most casual civilized woman to blush, she wore enough in the form of decoration to mark her as someone important. Her glare bore into him as she watched him ride away

"Not this time, ma'am," he uttered under his breath as he slapped the reins and hunched over to get more speed, leaving another battle behind.

.

* * *

.

"Well, out with it!" Fara snapped, her eyes downcast at her horse's mane, embarrassed anger etched on her face. "Which one you want to get on my case about first?"

He'd only caught up to her a few minutes before and eased their horses to a trot, stealing looks back every ten seconds or so and keeping his ears honed for any sounds of pursuit. But Fox suspected the Cerinians would stay with the cargo they'd won rather than chase two fast horses. Once again surrounded by the deceptive tranquility of the lush mountainside, he allowed himself to catch his breath and take a drink of water from his flask. He'd been in the middle of reloading his pistols when Fara lashed out at him.

"Which one what?" Fox replied.

"Which one what," the vixen echoed with a scoff. "How 'bout me jaunting us up here all sure the blue-furs would leave us be? How 'bout being so damn sure of myself that I took along two month's worth of goods from Santos and just goddamn lost it all, not to mention my only wagon? How 'bout freezing up on you when I should'a been firing back?"

Fox raised his brow in acknowledgement as he spun the freshly loaded cylinders and shoved his Ridgefields back in their holsters. "Sounds like you pretty much covered it all for me."

Looking more upset than most of the dead savages they'd left behind, Fara looked at the rifle across her lap. "I'd say you're a bad luck charm, Fox the fox, but if it wasn't for you, I'd probably be dead right now. Or on my way to becoming a blue-fur chieftain's bed pet. You're a hell of a fighter."

Fox reached for his other, smaller flask in his coat pocket. The one that showed its face when water couldn't cut it. He took a belt of whiskey and offered it to Fara who, surprisingly, took it. "I told you to stay back in town. The more you think Cerinians are leaving you alone, the more fooled you are."

Fara took her own draw of the sweet, fiery liquid and gritted her teeth with a cough or two before handing it back. "I was serious when I said they used to be okay with us. Don't know what happened." She shook her head. "What does it matter? I gotta go back and tell Santos I lost his supplies and that poor guy's been having enough problems as it is."

"Tell him he should'a hiked up his panties and made his own damn delivery."

A little chuckle fought its way through her sour demeanor.

"Listen," Fox said, "For what it's worth, you did okay back there. I seen better fighters than you crumble when they hear that blue-fur scream rattle their brains. Some of 'em never even get on the trigger. You did, and that's something."

She gave him a little sideways look of appreciation. "I've seen Cerinians before, even seen 'em attack a man once, but I never fought 'em myself. They're different from those thugs like the Blood Wolves. The Wolves are evils sons of bitches, sure, and I hate them more than anything. But the Cerinians…they're wild. Fierce. They don't want power or money, they want nothing from us but to kill us. Out here, they're like the ghosts of the land itself."

Fox nodded slowly. "But they bleed like anyone else."

The notion didn't seem to comfort her.

The two rode in silence the rest of the short trip, no more than fifteen minutes and down the slope of a foothill. The trees began to thin and give way to large boulders and carpets of rock. In a wide, flat valley under the looming watch of the mountains in the distance stood what Fox could only assume was Toad's place since no other unnatural traces could be perceived as far as the eye could see. The wood and metal warehouse was like a small mountain itself, solid and weather-worn with great streaks of rust trickling down its sloped roof to stain the metal outer walls, cutting through the faded white paint that declared the building property of "Toad Railway and Engineering." Its entire front consisted of bay door after bay door, each with a rail track laying out in front of it like a tongue from a mouth, at least half a dozen of them. The rails split off to different corners of the valley, each heading out to some far away destination, be it town or quarry or wherever trains would be needed. Fox didn't doubt that one of them probably went through Corneria City at one point. Every bay door was closed and the building itself looked as dilapidated and devoid of life as most of the city.

"How 'bout that," Fox said, tilting the brim of his hat to block the sun now that no trees overshadowed him. "Looks like a town all its own could fit in that warehouse, church steeple and all."

"This is where James and I used to work," Fara replied with a melancholy tone. "Here and the old train depot back in the city. Back in the day, this place bustled about like…well, like you said, a town all its own. Nearly a hundred workers, trains coming in and going out to all corners of the frontier, new prospects and new shipments dawn to dusk. My heart goes out to Slippy; in the same boat as me, trying to keep his little slice of history afloat out here."

Fox wrinkled his brow. "Slippy?"

With a chuckle, the vixen replied, "Silas Peter Toad. We were both kids out here when I worked for James and I used to call him Silas-Petey to get under his skin. That turned into Silly-Petey and then Silly-P, then just Slippy. He had a name for me too, though."

"What's that?"

"Street trash."

Fox looked over to if she was serious and shrugged. "I think yours was more creative."

Fara flipped her reins and took the lead, urging the horse into a quick gallop toward the warehouse. "Losing Beltino and James made us grow up real quick. No time for name-calling with Doc Andross around."

Fox followed after her, hoping the fidgety Cerinians hadn't decided to make a house call on Toad before turning their attention on the road. The behemoth of a building loomed tall over him as he dismounted and tied the horse to the vacant hitching post. After doing the same, Fara headed to the iron-reinforced door and gave two heavy knocks with a clenched fist before shoving the door open herself. Hand draped by his pistol, the apprehensive fox followed.

"Slippy!" Fara called out, cupping her hands around her muzzle.

The echo took its time wearing down, long enough that Fox's eyes had adjusted to the dim light. The inside of the warehouse looked no better off than its shell, the musty odor of dust, metal, and smoke burning his nostrils. Not gunsmoke though; work smoke, the kind made from sparks and melted iron. The two wary guests took a few steps into the warehouse, weaving around crates and mounds of scrap, until they could clearly see the train bays lined up behind their respective bay doors. Only a few of the turntables held cars. Though Fox thought it to be a trick of the light at first, the final turntable at the far end of the warehouse harbored something hidden under a white drape, something big enough that he was only able to see it past the closer train cars because of its overbearing size. Just as he squinted to try and make out some hard angles under the covering, a voice responded to the echo.

"That name stopped being amusing fifteen years ago."

To their left across from the trains, sitting at a wide workbench against the wall mired in shadow and clouds of dust, a plump silhouette turned to face them, dropping on the bench whatever trinket he'd been working on with a solid thud.

"In fact, it was never amusing."

The man – a toad, as his literal surname implied – stood and walked forth into the meager light provided by the high windows, wiping his oily hands on an equally oily cloth that looked ill equipped to clean anything. He wore a tan suit, sans the jacket, with the sleeves rolled up and a good amount of grime as a final layer. Mulling Fox over with suspicious eyes, he finally beckoned with his index finger and walked back to his workbench.

"Most people found it amusing," Fara retorted following him with her travelling partner lingering behind.

"Most people around here were dim-witted imbeciles whose sole function was to lift a pickaxe and let it fall with slightly more force than it would have otherwise. And laugh at your attempts at humor as well." Toad pulled a bottle from one of the workbench drawers and thumped it on top. "Crown Royale single malt. Better than the swill you'll have forced down your gullet at the Phoenix Feather. My father's choice label, offered to all new guests of Toad Railway and Engineering."

Fox realized the man was talking to him and he slowly made his way over to the workbench, retrieving his flask. "Could use a refill." As he poured he nodded toward the massive draped mystery at the end of the warehouse. "What's that over there?"

"A gargantuan heap of disappointment that will never see the light of day again. Does that sate your curiosity?" Toad sat and swiveled his chair away from the bench to face them, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. "Traveling with a hired grunt these days, Fara? I'd take a few jabs at you for it, but it seemed to work in your favor today."

"You heard all that?" she replied, swiping the whiskey from Fox once he'd finished and taking a swig straight from the bottle.

"These mountain winds carry noise easy as a feather. You have my compliments, sir, for evading a Cerinian ambush. Krazoa?"

Fara nodded.

"Strange," the engineer uttered with a frown. "They've been quite energetic lately. Sometimes at dawn I see four or five on the far ridge line just watching me, like hyenas waiting for the right moment to finish off a meal."

Fox took a gulp of the Crown Royale before putting the flask away and swallowed with a smooth burn unlike any whiskey he'd had in years. He'd have to make that flask last. "You're all alone out here? And they leave you alone?"

Toad chuckled with a devilish grin. "You can shoot your enemies down all day, sir, but the only decisive victories come from wit. I found out several years ago that some Cerinians were superstitious when it came to me, thought I was doing all kinds of unholy things in here what with the noise and sparks and all. So I encouraged the myth, set up some decoy traps, strew some cow entrails here and there, all that sort of wholesome activity. Now they're afraid to cross the treeline. I fear it won't last though, now that something's got their dander up. Speaking of which, should I assume my expected goods fell victim on the way here?"

"They might still be out there," Fox replied, giving his own little devilish grin. "Maybe the savages'll give some back if you go on over and ask real nice."

"I'll make do without, thank you. I might just go back to the city with you for some time until the Cerinians settle down. Though I don't know if the Blood Wolves are only a lateral substitution at best."

"So you're a technical man, huh? You don't seem like one."

"What did you expect, a sprite little fop with a squeaky voice and a stuttering problem?" He squinted and looked the other man over top to bottom. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced. Silas P. Toad, owner of the rusty husk of an establishment formerly known as Toad Railway and Engineering."

"Call me Fox."

"Fox? Huh. I see the same mischievous fate that gave me my last name played the same trick on you."

"It's not his real name," Fara interrupted. She'd worked her way to the wall near the workbench where a wide array of tools hung on pegs, and flicked and fingered them as she perused them. "He wanted to see you about…well, maybe he can tell you."

Toad looked back expectantly and gestured toward a seat for him, but he ignored it; last thing he wanted after a hard day's ride was another stiff seat.

"Your father used to hire a security freelancer named James McCloud," Fox started. "I want to know what you know about him, and about Doc Andross."

Toad's brow furrowed and he stared back at his guest for half a minute before reaching for something in the shadows on his workbench. Fox's hand instinctively twitched but all that came out in the engineer's hand was an intricately carved pipe. He took his time with the pipe, laying the mouthpiece about his lower lip, retrieving tobacco from his vest pocket, and pouring a good amount into the bowl. He struck a match, lit the pipe, and took a deep draw. "What's your interest?"

"My interest is my own."

"That's no way to do business."

"Oh, God!" Fara cried from the side of the bench, pounding her fist against the wall and evoking a rattle of disturbed tools. "Stop trying to act like your pa, Slippy! Business? Ha! You got an oversized hovel filled with broken memories and life ground to a halt in its tracks, just like me! Havin' a fancy education don't make you any more worth a damn out in these parts. This fox here gunned down Oikonney in a fair fight and he ain't a friend of Doc Andross. You want to do something to help out here other than prattle on like an arrogant prick, then answer the man's questions!"

Toad's pipe hung from his lip as he exchanged a brief look to match the woman's glare. Finally, he took it in his fingers and let out a long sigh, annoyed by her outburst but seemingly unable to retort effectively. "You killed a Blood Wolf? Good. They say my father died by the hand of a disgruntled laborer but only a fool would believe that. The old Blood Wolves did it under Andross' command."

"Why?" Fox pursued. "Why would Andross murder James McCloud and your father? What does it have to do with Venom Hill?"

"We Toads aren't just businessmen; as you can see here, we're also machinists. We get our hands on metal and we build. We innovate. We design and create and improve. Most of all, we love a challenge." He took another draw of his pipe. "Doc Andross came out here seventeen, eighteen years ago and bought up some houses in the city. He was of obviously vast intellect and wealth, and ambitious as well. He bought the barren land to the northwest called Venom Hill. A name like that doesn't boast lovely vistas and fertile land. Rocky terrain, dry and barren. We'd just finished plans for a rail line connecting Corneria City with an eastern route when Andross offered a ludicrous sum of money for a side line going up to Venom Hill. The sum was equal to the challenge of building in that harsh land so my father took it. James McCloud handled security."

"What's at Venom Hill?"

Toad shrugged. "No one left in the city has been up there. It's a long, unforgiving ride through Cerinian land. And not Krazoa land either. The other tribes out there make the Krazoa seem quite welcoming. All I remember from my childhood is that the line was completed and James left for home. He and his family were murdered and my father followed soon after. Something involving that rail line meant they had to die." He waved toward the train bays. "Line three still runs up there. Once Corneria City began to crumble under the weight of Andross' fist, TRE followed, and the connecting line to the east was never built. It's baffling; Andross pays for a rail line, never uses it, and then destroys the possibility of it being connected to the economic hubs of the east."

Fox let the information sink in for a few moments, stealing a glance at the vacant line bound for Venom Hill. "I don't rightly care for his reasons. I'm just here to kill him."

Toad laughed and shook his head. "I don't know where you're from, but I have no trouble believing Andross has hurt just as many people in other parts of the world as he did here. Can't imagine how many people want him dead. Well, if you want to follow that line for a good eighty or so miles through wild, arid, craggy Cerinian land fraught with Blood Wolf lookouts…you're bound to find him, or whatever he's got up there in his own little slice of hellish heaven."

The fox's eyes lingered on the track for some time before he faced Silas again, his voice a bit more subdued. "What do you know about James McCloud?"

In the duration of a long draw of his pipe, Toad's face became somber. He exchanged a look with Fara, a look of mutual respect without any of the head-butting they'd displayed the whole time Fox had been there. He spoke simply. "James was a fine man. My father respected him more than anyone else, and for good reason. No one like him has been to Corneria City since the day he left."

Fox found himself echoing his sentiment from that morning in his hotel room. "Wish I could've known him." He paused and added, "I was counting on some more information I could use."

Toad shrugged. "I'd be willing to look more thoroughly into my father's records, but I'm not doing it here, not with those savages becoming more unpredictable by the day. Help me load some things into my wagon and lock this place down. We can leave at dawn. I doubt they'll bother us with me and my 'sorcery' aboard." As he stood, he hesitated and narrowed his eyes as if just remembering something. "You know, there is one person who might be able to shed some light on Doc Andross and the Blood Wolves."

Fara's eyes flew wide and she scowled. "Forget it, Slippy. He made his choice, he can rot in hell for it."

"Oh, come now. You don't have to like him, you just have to show your nameless friend here to him. If you're lucky, he'll start a fight like he always does and 'Fox' can put him out of our misery."

"I never want to see that horse's ass ever again."

"If he has information," Fox interrupted, "I'll see him. Where is he?"

Fara's scowl remained plastered on her face and she crossed her arms, that old fire in her eyes once more. "Don't know what rock he crawls under at night, but any given day, you can find him at the Cat's Paw."

"Okay then. It'll be nice to finally see what all the fuss is about with that place. What's his name?"

"Just look for the most drunken man in the bar," Toad chuckled as he stood and began gathering odds and ends from his workbench to pack and take with him. "His name's Lombardi."

Fara's scowl deepened and she spat out her next words with venom the likes of which he hadn't heard in a long while:

"He's a former Blood Wolf."

.

**_-Chapter 4 Coming Soon-_**


End file.
